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16

 





red lady

MIDLIFE, A RETURN FROM HELL

  

Always the eidetic object hovers,

Ions looming amid some vision

As you discover yourself lost midway

In the dark, midmost in strangeness,

At the spiritual midnight of your mind,

When a middleman of sorts comes

To help with your middle-aged

 

Muddle, explaining the mid-flight

Movie of your own mid-life mess,

Hunkering down next to you,

Ulterior motives rippling over

His flesh at right angles to your

Inner core of outdated beliefs,

The middle way as lost to you

 

As your mind in the middle of

The mesh, noonday, like a news

Flash, world without wit or rhyme,

A world wide web of choices on

The line, the world totally on hold,

All worldly concepts in a whorl

Somewhere mid-ocean, no more

 

High flight plans, body erect,

No chance of Eros or recreation.

Billboards being erected point out,

Yammer your deep implication 

To the news gathering world and, 

My nature, “forget nature, it’s only 

Natural to feel weird”, the guy says.

 

The supernatural takes over

Naturally, like the paramedics

On the creator’s own team dispatched

To your horror scene with medical aid,

Your condition grave, extreme,

And they slam you in a white vehicle,

a slow drizzle runs into your arm.

  

A window, flush with ceiling aligns

Vertical sights, baroque, figurative,

Cosmic and forceful, heaven and

All its administration peering down,

Ready to administer, register death

Or damnation, poised to circle about

Pondering your circumstances.

 

Circular hell awaits you as people

Circulate in limbo-like corridors,

The short circuit of your life seems

To have found its circumference,

A life circumnavigated without

Being bold or courageous, no ire,

Only the old ox led off to his end.

 

The idea of recovery comes late,

On Tarot card pictures, a red lady

Presents, “Oh, it's nothing, DEATH?

It’s nothing, nor is it really death!

Emulate its poetry. Go ahead, die!

Your spirit will howl for today, but

Tomorrow you’ll know what to do.”

 

Become  flame, evolve from sparks

acknowledge your self consumption

twist the blade in your imagination,

roast the answers over a slow fire

answer the voices before they

boost the volume on your hearing

aid, and you only hear the indoors.

 

Temporary passes get you there.

Unauthorized passengers, frenzied,

Will stray in and out with the good.

They visit you with plans of action;

Visiting the unplanned, the bored,

Becomes their beatitude: to be visited

By the heavenly is absolutely key.

  

No amount of archaic references

Can explain homo chic, the red lady 

Cannot  be explained in simple terms.

Be prudent, her carrot-eating mania

For red-hot tangibility keeps the gal 

And her new ladylove under control.

Run the trine, submit, incorporate.

 

Match wits with the trinity of fire.

The projects you begin are all relative.    

Part of the revelation is the waiting,

The flicker in the rec-room that reveals

What must be sensed by felt board 

Or pottery clay, a menu for today

Could be as relevant as ritual choice.

 

Burned, steamed or boiled relevance

May usher in the next relationship,

And take the relation of forms a step

Closer to being more relevant than

An avalanche of potatoes, baked beans,

Briskets beautifully arranged by their

Intervals and beautiful alignments.

 

Your fire beatifies whirling action,

allows an agenda to be beautiful,

and melts ideas that tend to wiggle.

A hot poker in the eye of the beholder

clarifies the meaning of your psyche

as she learns what it means to be            

as deadly as she is utterly brilliant.

 

jw icon c.2001

© Jimmy Warner, 2016


 


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